"You've got two choices, Harry. Bibles or metal detectors. If you can't quote scripture and spit out a convincing 'Praise the Lord,' you better choose the metal detectors."

Harry Lipscomb was a miserable failure. During his tenure on the road, he'd tried selling vacuums, encyclopedias, and detergent. Most folks who answered the door shut him down with a curt "No thank you, I'm not interested, have a nice day." They were always polite. Harry's tendencies to sweat and stammer didn't aid his cause. Like many travelling salesmen before him, Harry was a dedicated alcoholic. Pronounced veins of red and purple crosshatched his nose. A stink of mint Listerine wafted from his mouth in humid gusts each time he spoke.

"Shit, Roy. I guess I'll take the metal detectors. You know I never held no truck with Jesus or his frothing legion. They give me the creeps."

"Ahem... Okay. Greetings, fine sir, my name is Harry Lipscomb. I'm here today to share my wonderful invention with you. This Viking metal detector is the latest creation from my scientific laboratory. All you gotta do is wave it over the ground and listen for the electronic sensors to squeak! Easy as pie! With this sleek machine you can unearth buried treasures like antiques, old coins, Indian arrowheads, and possibly even silver or gold. You might be walking over a fortune everyday and never know it. This miracle of science will provide you a wonderful new hobby that's both relaxing and lucrative. Have you ever wondered what lies below your own backyard? Now you can find out without tearing up your whole lawn. Here's the best part: It only costs $49.95! They also make great gifts for family members like uncles or grandsons. How many would you like?"

"Harry, you gotta slow down. Rope 'em in a bit. Make a connection with 'em first. Say something nice about their home, or their dog, or whateverthefuck. You need to make 'em like you so they'll feel guilty if they turn you down. The way you approach it, you look sound like a auctioneer who needs to shit real bad. Way too goddamned fast. Look, Harry. This is a waste of my time. I ain't a coach. Take a couple boxes and hit the road. Even you can't fuck this one up. They're easy marks, Harry, easy marks. Don't come back until you sold 'em all."

There's a few directions I can take this. I don't know what happens next (yet) but I might take this story into surreal territory, or I might use it poke fun at rural folk, or I might make it a nasty little horror tale. I guess it depends on my mood when I continue it next Monday. Have a nice weekend. Sorry about the sparse content this week.

Howdy Steve. I liked this an awful lot, Kerouaced was right, the dialogue just friggen flows!

Unfortunately I don't think I'll have much time to read the next installment... I'm way too busy these days reading and commenting on shoddy weblogs gratuitously promoted in the comment section of writers I actually like.